Page 53 of Scrum Heat

I don’t know how long I stay curled up, replaying everything in my head.

The way I leaned in. The silence he met me with.

And, of course, the humiliating way I bolted.

I pull the blanket over my face. Somewhere in the house, one of the guys laughs loudly—Theo, I think. I’m not even sure if it’s real at this point.

Just as my eyes are beginning to droop to a close, there’s a knock on the door.

“Frankie?”

I freeze at the sound of Finn’s voice muffled through the door.

There’s a beat of silence, then: “I, uh—brought tea. Just wanted to check on you.”

I sit up, wipe under my eyes(just in case), and shuffle to the door. It’s not locked, but he doesn’t even try to open it.

I crack it open to the sight of him standing there in gray sweatpants and a plain white tee, his fair hair still damp from the shower. There’s a steaming mug in his hands, and that soft,uncertain smile on his face that makes me feel like I’m being offered a life raft.

I step back. “You can come in. If you want.”

He nods, then closes the door behind him quietly. He doesn’t say anything at first—just passes me the mug and takes in the evolving blanket nest in the corner as I climb back onto the bed and sit against the headboard, legs tucked under me.

He hovers, glancing around like he’s not sure if he should sit or retreat. Finally, I pat the edge of the mattress.

“You can sit.”

He lowers himself gently onto the bed; not too close, but not too far, either. Always a gentleman.

“You alright?” he asks.

I nod, then shake my head, then shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He watches me for a second, then sighs. “About earlier… I just wanted to say I’m sorry. If I made anything weird.”

“You didn’t.”

I sip the tea. It’s peppermint. Ofcourseit’s peppermint.

“I just didn’t want to do something you’d regret,” he says softly. “That’s all.”

I frown. “Why would I regret it?”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

“I’m not good at this stuff,” I admit. Finn’s eyebrows lift slightly, the soft green of his eyes turning curious. “I mean… you know. Feelings. Trust. Letting people in.”

“You don’t have to be,” he says, gentle and sure. “Not with me.”

We sit with it—his words, my fear, the space between us—until his hand moves across the blanket and brushes mine. It’s barely a touch, just the side of his knuckles against the back of my hand, but it sends a jolt straight through me.

I glance at his hand, then up at him.

He’s already watching me.

I watch his face, utterly transfixed as his lips part and his eyes darken—

And this time—this time—he leans in first.

---